


Much Ado

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [48]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-17 11:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8141930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: Some of the women in Athos' life decide to pay him a surprise visit. Then Aramis goes missing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



“I have come to yell at you.”

Constance looks quite calm as she utters this statement, but if he squints Athos thinks that he can detect disturbances under the surface - a certain tension. He moves backwards to allow her to step through the door, and she pushes into the apartment, radiating impatience. She’s nattily attired in a charcoal grey dress and black ankle boots and swishes the hem of her cape at him as she takes it off.

It reminds him forcibly of his mother. He does not mention this.

“Coffee?” he offers.

“Yes please,” she sighs.

She’s wearing her hair pinned tightly to her head, a style which suits her remarkably well, but reminds Athos of the society function during which Evangeline complained about hairpin headaches for a solid five hours. Maybe that’s why she’s subliminally cranky.

Athos certainly doesn’t remember doing anything to upset her. Thanks to Aramis’ unintentional advertising efforts during the Baroness d’Avon’s tea party her shop has been very busy lately, but that’s certainly nothing to complain about, least of all to Athos.

If someone has the right to complain it’s Athos and Porthos, who have seen very little of their Aramis lately, because he’s always working. Always. Working. Always on Saturdays, sometimes even Sundays.

Which is why Athos is doubly confused about Constance’s visit. It’s a weekday. She should be in the shop, doing her job, so Aramis can come home at a reasonable hour for once.

Athos does not mention this either. Instead he brews the promised coffee, hunts through the pantry in search of something pacifying, and eventually joins Constance in the living room, where she has staked claim to his armchair. Most visitors do, he’s noticed. He’ll have to buy a few more armchairs.

“Now,” he says, setting a humongous coffee mug down on the table in front of her. “What did I do to displease you?”

“Nothing, really,” Constance says, dimpling at him for a brief moment before her face clouds over with the kind of weather phenomenon people tend to hide in cellars from. “You’re just the only one currently available to me for yelling at.”

Athos feels unfairly beleaguered. “I can inform you about Porthos’ whereabouts if you like.”

Because there will be no yelling at Aramis, Athos is quite aware of that.

“No thank you,” Constance says, lifting her nose. “Because when I say _nothing_ , I actually mean _very little_.”

Athos gently clears his throat and does not point out to her that her linguistic efforts are a tad tiresome. She seems to be aware anyway.

“We need help in the shop,” she informs him briskly, which is no real news and thus probably the introduction to something else entirely. “Ever since your stupid tea party we’ve been utterly swamped. I knew I shouldn’t allow Aramis to make those suits. He’s far too good when working for someone he cares about.”

“Have a cookie,” Athos says, so he can enjoy the warmth in his belly resulting from those words in peace, if only for a moment. “They are quite good.”

So Constance has a cookie and sips her coffee, allowing Athos to wallow in her attestation of Aramis’ affection. Then she takes a deep breath. “I advertised for trainees a few days ago, because I don’t think business will ever go back to its normal pace as long as Aramis keeps dressing you and Porthos.” She glares at Athos. “Guess who instantly called for an interview.”

Athos needs a moment. Then the clouds clear, leaving him blinded by the obvious. “D’Artagnan.”

“Yes,” she hisses. “D’Artagnan. The man child I have been trying to keep at arm’s length for months now. But apparently _someone_ told him that it was too early to give up, so he’s been teaching himself how to sew, waiting for fate to favour him or some such nonsense.”

“Tenacious,” Athos observes, mostly to himself.

“He’s impossible!” Constance wails, finally yelling at Athos the way she’d promised upon her arrival. “No matter what I do, he keeps insisting on being charming and lovable and helpful! I can’t do this anymore!”

She closes her eyes and lets her head drop back against the high back of the armchair. Howard the kitten promptly jumps up into her lap to purr at her and make soothing cat noises. She lifts one hand to pet him, eyes still firmly closed.

Athos regards her in silence for a moment.

“I do not presume to know your emotions,” he says carefully, “but don’t you think you have fought the tide long enough now?”

She opens her lids just wide enough to glare at him. “This is you not presuming to know my emotions?”

“You would not be this upset,” Athos points out gently, “if he meant nothing to you.”

“He’s more than five years younger than me!” Constance snaps.

Athos smiles. “Is this the point where I remind you that he is not Aramis?”

Constance’s head rolls to the side, allowing her to comprehensively evade his gaze. “So?”

“He is not fourteen years old, Constance,” Athos says quietly. “Nor are you oblivious of his affection, or planning to exploit his innocence. You are causing him no harm by … returning his regard.”

The doorbell rings just when Constance opens her mouth, cutting her off. Athos frowns, bemused. He doesn’t usually get called upon this much in one day - at least not by people using the front entrance door bell. Unannounced visitors during the week are usually tenants alerting him to something being wrong with their apartments. Not Valkyrie coming in from the street.

Nevertheless Athos excuses himself and gets up to use the intercom system in the hallway, which crackles to life under his probing fingertip, ready to serve. “Yes?” he asks, politely inquiring.

His voice gets drowned out by the anguished wail of a baby in distress, and he goes tense all over, repeats himself, somewhat louder. “Yes?”

“Can I come up?” Elodie sounds like she’s been crying, and Athos hits the button to unlock the front door with slightly more force than necessary.

By the time the elevator containing her and the baby has lumbered up to the penthouse he’s had time to contemplate all possible scenarios of disaster that could have brought Elodie to his door, but he still doesn’t expect her to look quite so _exhausted_ when the elevator doors finally reveal her.

“Thank you,” she sniffs, eyes red and cheeks quite devoid of colour. “I didn’t really know where else to go.”

She pushes the baby carriage out of the elevator and into the hallway, parks it beside the apartment door, and picks up her still wailing daughter, every movement tinged with weariness. Athos balls both hands to fists and takes a very deep breath. “May I take her?”

Elodie wordlessly hands him her child.

One glance at Jasmine reveals that she looks just as exhausted as her mother, and Athos gently rocks her in his arms as he takes the lead into the apartment. “Come in,” he murmurs. “I have cookies.”


	2. Chapter 2

Jasmine is still expressing her dissatisfaction with the world in general as Athos rejoins Constance in the living room, Elodie at his elbow. Both women look somewhat taken aback at encountering each other, and Constance gets up at once, causing Howard to add his own sound of displeasure to the cacophony.

Athos performs a perfunctory introduction. “Constance, this is Elodie - Elodie, Constance.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Constance says, trying to be subtle in looking Elodie up and down, gesturing at the abandoned armchair. “Why don’t you take a seat.”

Elodie attempts a smile and sits down as instructed, and Constance turns to Athos. “Give me the baby and make her a cup of tea, will you.”

“As you wish,” Athos murmurs, handing over the unhappy infant and turning towards the kitchen after making sure that Constance’s handle on the situation is customarily firm. He hears her maintain a light flow of small talk behind his back while he’s busy with the kettle, and smiles to himself. When he returns with a steaming mug of tea for Elodie Jasmine has calmed down to the occasional sniffle, and her mother doesn’t look quite so haggard anymore.

“What happened?” he asks her, his tone gentle, setting down the cup in easy reach of her after transferring Constance’s coffee mug to the other side of the table.

“They’re renovating the supermarket next door,” Elodie sighs, slumping down in the armchair as if she’s trying to be assembled into the soft upholstery. “It has been nothing but saws and drills and hammers since seven in the morning. After being up with the munchkin for more than half the night already it was a bit much.”

She still sounds a bit clogged up, and Athos can imagine her crying with exhaustion, unable to calm her wailing child. He winces in compassion. As does Constance. She also hands him back the baby as soon as he sits down next to her. Athos rocks her carefully, forcefully reminded of his three nieces when Jasmine rubs her eyes and yawns, face all screwed up.

“Sylvie’s back to work now, and my mother in law lives too far away,” Elodie says, looking ashamed. “Sorry for barging in on you like this.”

Athos smiles at her, as reassuringly as possible. “Once you’ve finished your tea I’m going to put clean sheets on the guest bed for you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Elodie mumbles.

“Yes, honey, it is,” Constance insists. “You look horrible.”

Elodie smiles, weary and grateful, and subsides.

So they let her drink her tea and then put her to bed in Aramis’ all but abandoned room. She’s already mostly asleep by the time Athos pulls the door shut behind himself, and he takes care to be quiet as he returns to the living room and the nest of cushions on the sofa where they’ve put the baby down for her own more than necessary nap. The nest is already being investigated by three very nosy kittens, and Athos sits down right next to it to make sure they don’t upset this fragile peace.

“So this is Porthos’ new friend,” Constance comments, taking a sip from her probably cold coffee. “She seems nice.”

“She is,” Athos confirms, one eye on Tom as he sniffs the baby’s face and settles down to function as her very own earwarmer. He takes a picture and sends it to Porthos, explaining what happened in a few, concise words, advising Porthos not to bother with his usual evening visit of his future goddaughter, but to come straight home from work, if possible a little earlier.

Because it’s rather unlikely that the supermarket renovation will be finished within one day, and there’s scheming to be done.

When Athos looks up from his phone Constance is eyeing him knowingly.

“Sorry about this,” he says, putting the phone away. “Where were we? Oh yes. D’Artagnan.”

Constance lifts both brows, and doesn’t utter a word. Athos smiles at her. “Are you already done yelling?”

“There’s a sleeping baby in the room now,” Constance points out with modulated sharpness. “I’m not a complete arse.”

Athos feels inclined to exploit the situation. So he settles more comfortably into the couch, taking care not to upset the baby’s nest to his right, and tilts his head. “Do you wish to hear my thoughts on the matter?”

“I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t want your opinion,” Constance sighs. “I might just as well have yelled at a wall of silent tolerance.”

Athos grins appreciatively.

“I just don’t want to hurt him,” Constance says then, suddenly insecure. “I couldn’t forgive myself if I did to him what others have done to Aramis.”

Athos swallows, somewhat overcome by her earnestness. “You will not hurt him like that,” he says softly. “You could not. D’Artagnan might be younger than you are, but he is not a child, nor is he as vulnerable as Aramis. He has had relationships before - healthy relationships.”

Constance doesn’t look convinced, and Athos sighs, raking his left hand through his hair. “Constance, you are in love with him. That very fact should be sufficient to ensure his happiness - both your happiness. Your regard is mutual, and you are really in no position to exploit and influence him - not any more than any other person in a relationship is.”

Constance takes a deep breath, and finally relaxes a little. “So what you’re saying is that I’m overthinking this.”

“I do not blame you,” Athos muses, leaning forward to select a cookie from the plate on the table. “Your circumstances in your professional life force you to plan ahead and take no step without contemplation. Add an intimate knowledge of Aramis’ past experiences to that and you are bound to shy away from taking a younger lover.”

Constance groans. “We really need help in the shop.”

“Take him on,” Athos says. “He has put himself through college, he has a business degree, and he can help you with the books on top of helping Aramis with the sewing. He is really quite dependable.”

Constance sits up a little straighter. “How do you know all this?”

“He helps me with my roof garden occasionally,” Athos discloses. “We have become somewhat close.”

Constance eyes him suspiciously. “So you’re totally on his side.”

“I am of the opinion that the two of you would make a great couple,” Athos corrects her. “Which is something different entirely.”

Constance sighs, and finishes her coffee. “Alright. What are you going to do about helping Elodie?”

“I shall wait until Porthos comes home to discuss the matter with him,” Athos says. “I am sure he will have an idea or two.”

Constance smiles. “Yes, you’re probably right about that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Elodie sleeps for two hours. Constance has long gone and returned to her shop by the time she emerges from the guest room, bleary-eyed but smiling, making a bee-line for her just now awaking offspring. Athos watches her pick up the baby from his vantage point on his armchair and puts down his book to make tea when she settles down to nurse.

“Have you slept well?” he asks her over his shoulder, spooning loose tea leaves into a filter, the kettle already heating up to his right. Having comparable strangers in his space without any buffer always sets his teeth a little on edge, but it helps that she’s so clearly in need of assistance. It also helps that she doesn’t appear to expect anything from him.

“Yes, very well, thank you,” she replies. “That mattress is heavenly.”

Athos smiles, pleased, and opens the fridge to take out the leftover chili and heat it up for her. Porthos won’t miss it, and Aramis will have eaten at work anyway.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything when I showed up earlier,” Elodie says after a moment of silence. “Your friend looked a bit upset.”

“She was,” Athos confirms, buttering toast to serve with the chili. “But that had nothing whatsoever to do with your coming here.”

He carries the steaming plate of food to the table and sets it down in front of Elodie, toast perching on the rim. Elodie blinks at him. “What is this?”

“Chili,” Athos informs her. “Porthos made it, so you do not have to fear for your taste buds.”

She appears to be lost for words, and then she straightens, almost dislodging her still suckling daughter. “Tell me - is Aramis this mothering as well? Do you draw straws to decide who gets to take care of whom?”

“We usually leave the field to Porthos,” Athos says, immensely pleased by the fact that Elodie’s sitting on the sofa, which makes it possible for him to sink back into his armchair with a little sigh of bliss. “Aramis and I are not quite as militant about the mothering as he is.”

“Not quite,” Elodie echoes, still eying the steaming plate. “What if I’m a vegetarian?”

“Porthos would have told me,” Athos drawls. Porthos has in fact supplied him with much more knowledge about Elodie than Athos thinks he’ll ever have a reason to apply. “There is no shellfish in there, either.”

Not that she’s allergic; she just doesn’t like it.

Elodie rolls her eyes. Athos gets back up when the kettle whistles at him and for a moment he is quite busy with adding a blob of immensely stubborn honey to the leaves. Once that feat is accomplished he can add the water, set the timer, and return to his armchair.

When he sits down, Jasmine has been restored to her nest and is just sliding off into another nap, so Elodie can contemplate her own meal. Something she’s doing with quite inappropriate reluctance.

Athos frowns at her. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure I should eat this,” she says.

Athos feels lost. “Whyever not?” People refusing his hospitality makes him nervous. He has very little else to offer her, after all. Next she’ll require small talk from him. The horror.

“Because it would feel too much like imposing on you,” she tries to explain.

Athos sighs. “Believe me, I find it far more strenuous when you resist my efforts.”

“You and Porthos are very alike,” she observes, and leans forward to finally take the plate into her possession.

Athos shrugs. She may be right, and it’s not like it bothers him. It bothers him even less when a key in the door heralds Porthos’ arrival, bringing an end to this tete a tete.

Elodie is busy eating when Porthos rounds the corner, not showing even a smidgen of surprise or annoyance at his appearance. “You took your time,” she comments, crunching through a bit of toast. “I expected you to be here when I woke up.”

Porthos all but flies across the room and to her side. “Are you alright?”

“No,” she deadpans. “Please hold me.”

Athos grins to himself. Because Porthos plasters himself to Elodie’s left, and holds her. She manages to look very put upon by this. “I assume your better third told you what happened?” she mutters, trying to continue eating despite the giant leech clinging to her.

“Yes, he sent me a message,” Porthos confirms, peeking past her and at the sleeping baby on her other side. “Somethin' about the supermarket next door bein' renovated?”

He finally lets go of her to steal a bit of toast off her plate, and she promptly slaps his hand away. “Yes, precisely that. And not before it was overdue either. But the noise was horrible, and the munchkin objected to it quite energetically.”

Porthos winces. “I can imagine. So, do you wanna move into the guest room for as long as that’s goin’ on?”

Elodie continues eating her toast. “No, I do not.”

Athos tries not to look relieved. He has two beasts fighting in his breast; the first is a solitary creature, always, doesn’t want another person in the apartment to have to contend with for his lover’s time and affection, doesn’t want her in his space; the second wants to take care of her in any possible way. They’re both of them very loud, and Elodie’s curt refusal sends them to sleep within the instance.

Porthos nods, and grins, as if that’s precisely the answer he expected. “Alrighty. Wanna move into the orphanage instead?”

Elodie puts down her plate to turn around and properly stare at him. “What?”

“I already asked everyone, and they’re fine with it,” Porthos says, grinning right through her evident amazement. “They’re lookin’ forward to meetin’ you.”

“See, I told you he was more militant about the mothering,” Athos drawls. He’s quite taken with the idea, and not only because it frees him of the urge to house her himself. Well. He’ll still be housing her himself. The orphanage’s building belongs to him just as much as this one. But she doesn’t need to know that.

Elodie turns her head to stare at him. “Does this suggestion sound normal to you?”

“It sounds helpful to me,” Athos replies serenely. “Which is really all that matters. They will continue renovating for at least four weeks, Elodie. I looked it up while you were sleeping.”

“How very Bill Pullman of you,” she snorts.

“The orphanage is only two streets away from your shop,” Porthos lists, evidently eager to be even more helpful. “There’s people there who have experience with kids, you wouldn’t have to shop or cook for yourself, and the little ones are already goin’ bonkers with the idea of gettin’ to meet you two.”

Elodie groans and tumbles backwards against the couch, lifts a dramatic hand to her brow. “So what you’re saying, basically, is that I would disappoint a whole group of orphaned children by refusing.”

Porthos beams at her, evidently pleased by her quick understanding. “Precisely.”


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos, evidently intent on not losing any time, offers to go and get a few things of Elodie’s so she can move into the orphanage right away. Of course Athos has to accompany them and help, since Elodie refuses to let Porthos go through her clothes without supervision, and Athos expects a certain amount of entertainment from seeing their interaction.

He also wants to talk to the Captain about Elodie’s rent, because even the wildest outgrows of his imagination do not lead him to believe that Porthos has done anything of the sort, or that Elodie will agree to moving into the orphanage for free.

The walk to the pet shop and its second floor apartment is rather short, and the autumn evening exceedingly balmy. Athos wonders if winter, should it ever come, will make up for it by bringing another ice age. At this point he’s not certain he’d object.

“Sylvie’s going to kill me,” Elodie distracts him from these thoughts, pushing the baby carriage along the sidewalk as if the other pedestrians were invisible, or merely irrelevant. “She’ll say this is all part of your plan to get your grubby hands on my baby for those full-moon kitten sacrifices.”

“I’m confused,” Porthos says while bestowing a friendly nod on an elderly man who had to all but jump out of the carriage’s path. “Are we sacrificing babies or kittens?”

“I honestly don’t care.” Elodie frowns, perceiving the construction site at the end of the street. They can hear the hammering from here.

Athos sighs. So much for his entertainment. “Leave Jasmine here with me,” he offers. “We don’t want to upset her again.”

Elodie smiles at him. “Thank you. We won’t be long. All I need is to get my hands on a nail gun, and kill every single construction worker.”

Porthos looks intrigued. “Do I get the baby when you go to jail?”

“Of course.”

“Neat.”

Athos sighs once more and sends them on their way.

They return to him ten minutes later, Porthos carrying two immense shopping bags stuffed full of clothes, Elodie pulling a neat little suitcase. Jasmine, who has slept peacefully all the while, awakens with a little frown that promises a rather ugly scene as soon as her mother is close enough to see it.

“She needs a new diaper,” Elodie groans, recognizing the signs. “How close did you say your orphanage was?”

They all but run all the way to the massive doors of the old building, a bumpy mode of transportation Jasmine enjoys so much that she’s breathless with laughter when they arrive, completely distracted from her full diapers.

Until they stop.

It’s a rather unhappy baby they push over the threshold, and Porthos doesn’t waste any time. He barely lets Elodie take her daughter out of the carriage before he pulls her to the right and up the big staircase, up and up and to the second landing, past Flea and Charon’s room, into the nursery and towards its fully outfitted changing table. Athos, devoid of other options, follows with the suitcase.

“Nice,” Elodie comments, merely glancing at the rainbow on the wall, putting her daughter down to free her from her soggy bottoms. “I advise you to open a window.”

Athos abandons the suitcase in the middle of the room to follow that advice, breathing shallowly, while Porthos takes it upon himself to unearth a clean diaper from one of his shopping bags, since the ones hiding underneath the changing table are a tad big for their little lady. He’s still crouching on the ground when the door to the nursery opens behind him and Flea steps inside.

“Ah,” she says. “I knew I heard something.”

Her eyes find Elodie and she tilts her head and stares, takes in Elodie who mirrors her pose and stares right back, fascinated amusement pulling at both their mouths. Athos looks from one to the other, and he cannot believe that it took him so long to notice - that it took him seeing them together to realize -

“So,” Elodie snorts, cutting his bewilderment off with a snap of her voice. “Who’s telling Sylvie that you’re collecting tiny blondes with dainty noses?”

“I don’t object to the nose,” Flea grins. “But we’re certainly not tiny.”

Elodie grins back at her. “Next to Porthos we are.”

Flea smirks. “Fair enough.”

They turn towards Porthos as one, who has changed position so his back is no longer towards Flea, and doesn’t look like he’ll ever get up from his crouch. Instead he looks manic with glee. “Charon’s gonna die.”

Athos watches Flea lift her dainty nose. “No, he won’t. He will be very pleased, and never get confused. Ever.”

Porthos finally stands up and hands Elodie that diaper. “That’s Flea,” he tells her.

“So I gather,” Elodie murmurs back.

Flea promptly marches forward to inspect the baby, while Porthos hovers protectively, and Athos remains by the window, watching the scene unfold further.

“She’s lovely,” Flea says eventually. “Although she doesn’t have your nose.”

“No, that’s her daddy’s alright,” Elodie agrees, bumping shoulders with her. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Flea smiles. “I assume you haven’t seen your room yet?”

“Nope, the munchkin needed to be cleaned up first,” Elodie says, putting the finishing touches on her now stainless daughter before picking her up. “Lead the way.”

Flea does, and Athos and Porthos follow them at a little distance, somewhat intimidated by this instant kinship.

“You don’t think they’re actually related?” Porthos murmurs into Athos’ ear. “Cause that would be weird.”

“A lost sister?” Athos muses. “Intriguing. But not in this case, I do not think so, no.”

They follow the women into the last room to the right of the staircase, an airy but somewhat desolate apartment of generous size, with a high ceiling and hardwood floor. There’s an old four poster in one corner, its hangings moth-eaten and faded. A trunk matching the bed stands at its foot, complete with delicate little carvings, and a wardrobe big enough for passages to both Narnia and Middle Earth reigns the other side of the room

“I know it looks a bit barren,” Flea says, “but once Charon has finished that new set of hangings I told him to make it’ll look much nicer.”

“Are you kidding me?” Elodie replies, eyes wide and appreciative. “This is great. It’s so kind of you to let me stay here.”

“How could we not. We know a few things about screaming children after all.” Flea winks at her. “Wanna meet them?”

Elodie does want to meet them. So they take her and the baby back down the stairs and into the playroom, where everything turns quiet as soon as she steps over the threshold.

Charon, who is busy placing a bandaid with little hearts on it over a scratch on Teddies forearm doesn’t immediately turn around, but keeps his concentration on the wound. “Ok, what did you do now?” he asks in the voice of the long-suffering. “What’s with the guilty silence?”

“It’s aunt Flea,” Teddy informs him with a dramatic whisper. “She has an evil twin.”

That prompts Charon to straighten and turn around and do a beautiful double-take when he perceives Elodie standing right next to the love of his life. “Oh wow.”

Flea looks immensely pleased. “I know, right?”

Charon steps forward, entranced. “I see Porthos could induce you to accept our offer.”

“It was either that or go mad from the renovation noises,” Elodie smiles at him, evidently at ease with his obvious delight. “But are we sure that I am the evil twin in this constellation?”

“Only time will tell,” Flea says, an ominous ring to her voice, smiling madly.

Athos thinks Elodie will do well here. Very well indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this series two years ago today. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!


	5. Chapter 5

Porthos looks horrifically pleased with himself all the way home. Athos doesn’t know how he tolerates it. Must be a side effect of his terminal affection for the man.

“You were very managing today,” he drawls, reaching out to place his hand in the curve of Porthos’ elbow. “Are you satisfied that you have all your children under the same roof now?”

“Yeah.” Porthos’ grin is sunshine and honey and almost able to dispel the gathering darkness of the advancing night. “Did you see Teddy hold Jasmine? He’s turned so gentle lately, it’s killin’ me a little.”

Athos smiles and gives Porthos’ arm an equally gentle squeeze. “Yes, I saw.”

They walk home arm in arm, almost alone on the quiet sidewalk, for it’s gotten late, and this part of town has long ceased to attract the partying crowds. The lobby is empty when they step inside, comfortably lit by several of its original lamps, and the elevator rumbles upward with its usual quiet reliability.

“You think Aramis is home already?” Porthos asks as the elevator doors slide open in front of him, and Athos glances down at his phone to check the time.

“He should be.”

But neither Aramis’ keys nor his shoes are in the hallway when they step into the penthouse, so they sigh in disappointment, and settle down on the couch to wait. Minutes pass. Tom and Howard join them on the couch, one for each lap. Santiago is nowhere in sight, but that’s not unusual for him. He’s shy.

Athos picks up a book, and retreats to the corner of the couch. Porthos pouts. “Where _is_ he?”

Athos glances up from his book to see him checking his phone, and lifts an inquiring eyebrow. “Any messages?”

“None,” Porthos frowns, clearly discomfited. “He usually lets us know if he’s this late.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees, trying to sound serene. “He does.”

Porthos puts his phone down and tries to distract himself by fluffing the tufts on the tips of Howard’s ears. “I’m gonna give him a call,” he announces half a minute later, picking his phone back up.

Athos lifts the left corner of his mouth, and pretends to continue reading, while Porthos holds the phone to his ear, waiting for a sign of life.

“Straight to voicemail,” he grumbles eventually.

Now Athos is frowning as well. “Try Constance.”

So Porthos tries Constance, and is rewarded with instant success. They talk for a moment; Porthos reassures her that he’s not calling to gloat about her giving in regarding d’Artagnan - side-eyes Athos while maintaining that he in fact knew nothing about that - and it transpires that Constance sent Aramis home over an hour ago and has no idea why he’s not there to delight them with his presence yet.

“Thank you, Constance,” Porthos says, striving audibly to remain calm. “Have a good night.”

He hangs up and stares at Athos. “You think somethin’ happened?”

Athos swallows. “Maybe he’s already home after all.”

So they get up and check Porthos’ room, and then they check Athos’ room, and then the bathroom. Aramis isn’t there. A trip up the staircase and onto the roof reveals that he hasn’t succumbed to a sudden urge to admire Athos’ autumn garden in the dark either. So they return to the apartment, put their shoes back on, and go out to check the streets between home and Constance’s shop for their wayward lover.

Aramis remains unseen, but so does any sign of an accident.

“Where the fuck did he go?” Porthos growls, tearing at his curls. “Why the hell hasn’t he called?”

He’s standing just outside the streetlamp’s reach on the sidewalk, shoulders slumped under a dark green cardigan that looks black in the dark, and Athos doesn’t hesitate to step in front of him and sling his arms around Porthos’ middle. “I am sure he is fine.”

“Where is he then?” Porthos whispers, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Athos’ temple.

“Let us go home,” Athos murmurs, stroking his hands over Porthos’ back. “Wait for him there.”

He takes Porthos’ hand, holds it all the way back along the dark streets, careful to keep away from the pit that wants to swallow his thoughts and die them an inky black. Their second ride up the elevator in as many hours proceeds in uncomfortable silence, but Athos doesn’t let go of Porthos’ hand. For both their sakes.

He’s the one to unlock the apartment door, and drops the keys on the garderobe once inside. Then he pauses. “Porthos,” he says. “Did you check Aramis’ room earlier?”

They look at each other.

“Naw,” Porthos says, sighing from the depths of his soul. “Why would he -” He stalks down the hall as he speaks, opens the door to Aramis’ room, and relaxes immediately. “Would you look at that.”

Athos follows him, steps up beside him in the doorframe and beholds Aramis on the bed, fast asleep, still wearing his shoes, keys in his hand. Santiago is lying curled up at his neck, blinks at them reproachfully for a moment before closing his eyes again. Athos leans into Porthos, taking in the scene, sighs when Porthos puts his arm around him. “Should we wake him?”

“We should at least get him out of his clothes,” Porthos murmurs. So they step forward and into the room, close the door just in time to prevent Howard and Tom from joining them. It’s the only room the cats have no unlimited access to, and thus the only one they’re absolutely desperate to get into.

Aramis wakes up when Porthos tries to take his keys from him, and allows them to turn him on his back, soft and sleepy. “Has Santiago come out?” he whispers drowsily, smiles with delight when the kitten noses his cheek. “Ah, there you are.”

Athos can’t decide whom he wants to pet more.

“I wanted to get a clean shirt for tomorrow,” Aramis murmurs. “And he slipped in with me, hid under the bed. I think I must’ve fallen asleep, waiting for him to come back out.”

He stretches luxuriously, looking from one to the other, only marginally more awake than before. “Did you guys have a nice day?”

“How about you finally take off your shoes,” Porthos tells him, voice gentle, “and then Athos can tell you all about it while I make us somethin’ to eat real quick.”

So they grab Santiago off the bed, prevent Tom and Howard from entering the Forbidden Room, and curl up on the couch with cheese and bread and a bottle of red wine. Aramis is properly abashed when their story reaches the last chapters, and begs their forgiveness for worrying them this unnecessarily. He immediately fishes out his phone to call Constance to alert her to his reappearance and reproach her for not telling him about the d’Artagnan news herself in the process.

Athos smiles and plays with a strand of Aramis’ hair, listening to him talk on the phone.

“I _knew_ you were being this nonsensical because of me,” Aramis says, voice torn between guilt and indignation. “Making the poor boy wait like this.”

Constance’s reply, while inaudible, must be perfectly spiky and on point, for Aramis subsides immediately and presses into Porthos’ bulk for protection from her wrath. “Yes. Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I’m just happy for you both, I guess.”

Porthos kisses his cheek and rests his hand on Aramis’ thigh. Aramis blushes. “I should hang up now. It’s late. … Yes, I will. Good night, Constance.”

He puts his phone away, and eats a cube of cheese. “She sends her love,” he mumbles, chewing thoughtfully.

Athos studies his profile. “Is something the matter?”

Aramis attempts a shrug, somewhat hindered by the fact that he’s basically taken permanent residence underneath Porthos’ right arm. “It’s just … why didn’t she tell _me_ about this? I’m supposed to be her best friend.”

Athos meets Porthos’ gaze and smiles. “I think it was mere protectiveness, Aramis.”

“But I’m fine,” Aramis insists. “Can’t she tell?”

“Next time she shows up at my door with the intention to yell at me I will send her right back to you,” Athos drawls.

Aramis giggles. “Please don’t.” He’s a little flushed from the wine, still soft and sleepy from his nap - weary from his recent workload.

“We should go to bed soon,” Athos says, brushing his fingers over Aramis’ forehead to get his hair out of his eyes. “You look tired.”

“I am,” Aramis confirms, smiling peacefully. “Tired and happy.”

“Glad to hear it,” Porthos murmurs, brushing another kiss to Aramis’ cheek. “Had enough to eat?”

“Yes,” Aramis says. “I’m full. Let’s go to bed. I feel like it’s been forever since I got to properly cuddle you two.”

Athos is quite positive that he will fall asleep on them before any decent cuddling can be had, but keeps that conviction to himself. It’s not like he minds. Aramis is there to fall asleep on them, that’s the important thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the result of a comment-section discussion below one of the previous installments. I don't remember which one, otherwise I would give credit where credit is due! Thank you ever so much, brilliant bunny granter!
> 
> EDIT: The story was _Perception_ , and the commenter who inspired this chapter was our very own megs - THANK YOU VERY MUCH INDEED!


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